


til you make it

by puckity



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humor, M/M, Slightly Resolved Sexual Tension, Undercover as a Couple, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckity/pseuds/puckity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Really?” Agent Hill raised the glass to her lips but didn’t swallow. “It seems like it’s a problem.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	til you make it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calliope_Soars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliope_Soars/gifts).



> Written for the 2015 SamSteve Exchange for the interminably darling [the-omniscient-narrator](http://the-omniscient-narrator.tumblr.com/), whose prompts included (among other things) the fake dating/married trope!
> 
> Unbeta'd. You can also follow me on [Tumblr](http://puckity.tumblr.com/).

Mission briefing files used to be all digital, uploaded to shared secret drives or fed directly to the screen of an agent’s technology of choice. Natasha had preferred a smart watch, compact and secured to her body at all times. Steve stuck with his phone and when it came up in teasing tones over post-mission donuts, he’d just smile sly and mutter something about _the more things change, the more they stay the same_.

Sam would have gone for the latest sleek tablet, ostensibly as a safeguard against eye strain. He firmly believed that he would have gotten away with it too since S.H.I.E.L.D. probably had—among all their nooks and crannies of intel—a listing for the salaries of VA counselors. But he’d managed to trip into saving the world right when everything went to hell, including a full dump of all files onto the Internet, so he hadn’t gotten to test his theory yet. He tried not to bring it up too often.

“One more reason I got to punch out every HYDRA jerk we can find.” He’d grin with his teeth and knock his knuckles against Steve’s biceps that always seemed millimeters away from ripping his t-shirt sleeves in half.

And Steve would scoff but it would be warm, thin lips twitching at the corners. He wouldn’t be looking at Sam; he’d be scanning security footage or tracing over roadmaps or staring at the same phrases he’d been staring at for months: _systematic torture, cognitive recalibration, identity destabilization, seventy—seventy—seventy years_. He would need the laugh; they’d both need it.

Steve wouldn’t be looking at Sam, but Sam could’ve been looking at him. Could’ve been noticing the soft flutter of crowded lashes, the asymmetrical profile of a too-often broken nose, the etchings in skin that hadn’t been carved out by the ice. Could’ve been tempted to reach out towards a shoulder to comfort. Could’ve been resisting pressing his fingertips to those creases in Steve’s expression, hoping to smooth them over.

He could’ve been doing a lot of things that Steve wouldn’t have seen, but somehow Sam knew that he’d still _know_ nonetheless.

\---

As the tattered scraps of S.H.I.E.L.D. stitched themselves back together, the freedom that Sam and Steve had been promised to pursue “personal priorities” started coming back with restrictions. They’d have to schedule in-person check-ins once a month, then twice, then once a week. Steve was needed here for a containment and there for a raid and he _strongly recommended_ Sam for his team on each and every mission but only got approval when all the other agents were unavailable.

All files had regressed back to paper documentation, and the official request response forms listed: “lack of adequate S.H.I.E.L.D. training” and “limited resources” under the “Reasons for Denial” sub-section. Steve would come home to the split-level safe house in Manassas that they’d set up in Sam’s great-aunt’s name with several choice words for the administrative divisions—which by now was really just a handful of overworked and arbitrarily promoted agents who had decided that, in the wake of the Pierce coup and Fury going underground, the best course of action would be to close ranks even tighter. Sam couldn’t blame them, not really, but it was got pretty damn boring keeping Captain America’s dinner warm for him every night.

When things got really dry, he’d start to fill out Steve’s mission reports—the first several pages were pre-mission details that Sam could write up in his creaky spring mattress sleep by now—and wonder if he’d quit his VA job a little too hastily.

\---

“You’re home early.” Sam didn’t switch the channel from his favorite mid-afternoon soap opera; he didn’t even make a half-hearted attempt at the remote. This week’s storyline had been super intense and Sam didn’t want to miss the reveal of a love spell cast by the resident modern-day witch on the current main (non-witch) couple. It had to happen in this episode, because they were about four scenes away from getting married.

“Yeah.” Steve hung up his jacket and toed off his shoes, lining them up precisely next to Sam’s sneakers. “Are you still watching that garbage?” He walked over near the sofa and cocked his head at the television.

Sam waved a lazy hand. “Whatever, man. You know that you were just as invested as me in Stacey and Jacob’s relationship. You’re just mad that Sue did that spell and made them fall in love really fast.”

“Where’s the fun in faking love?” Steve paused. Sam caught his gaze, quick and flitting and unexpected, and they both broke it in a stutter. Steve pointed at the screen, “And why is there a witch? I mean, there could be someone who practices…what’re they called?”

“Wiccans.” Sam offered.

“Yes, a wiccan, thanks.” Steve’s hands went to his hips. “But why would you have an actual witch? How does that improve the story? It’s just not realistic.”

Sam chuckled light. “Dude, you—we—live in a world of superhuman Nazis with red rubber faces and brains downloaded into computers and Norse gods leading alien armies towards global genocide, and you’re saying that a small town witch is unrealistic?”

Steve rolled his shoulders and shrugged. “Loki is a demigod, but I see your point.”

“Very generous.” The scene—a tense moment between the brother of the groom (who had set up the spell) and the witch—cut off into a commercial for low calorie yogurt. Sam spun on the couch cushion to face Steve. “So what gives? I thought you had a new mission? What, did you save the world from an evil sentient robot army already?”

Steve’s mouth stretched into a smirk. He crossed his arms across his chest, loose like a challenge. “What, like that’s hard?”

“Okay, smartass.” Sam nodded and slid back towards the TV. “See if I tell you want Sue said about the terms of the spell.”

Steve laughed, rough and unpolished and labored—happiness was always labored with him. Sam thought that he’d let Steve be as much of a smartass as he wanted to be if that’s what would keep him happy.

“They called me in for a debriefing, but the mission doesn’t start until tomorrow. It’s an undercover job.” Steve rummaged through the worn canvas messenger bag (one of Sam’s old ones) that he used in lieu of a briefcase. After a few seconds of searching, he pulled out a green folder and held it up smugly.

“Why’re you looking so pleased with yourself? You get to pretend to be Iron Man this time?” In the background a commercial announcer explained the benefits of an improved birth control pill, which seemed to mainly be four periods a year.

Steve dropped the file in Sam’s lap. “I got you on this one.”

Sam grabbed at the folder so fast that it crumpled along the corners where his fists gripped it. “Are you serious? Goddamn finally, man! I was beginning to worry that this superhero gig just wasn’t for me. So, what’re we doing?”

Sam could have been, probably was, imagining it—but the skin along Steve’s collar seemed to flush.

“Take a look.”

The soap opera came back on, and Sam opened the file.

\---

Sam wasn’t upset. There was no reason to be upset. In fact, he was the _opposite_ of upset.

He was on a mission, instead of being stuck at home. It was a mission that—most likely—wouldn’t put any of them in serious physical danger. He was getting a sweet suit (to be returned to S.H.I.E.L.D.) and an expensive dinner (that even S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t take away from him) out of it, and a date—albeit a fake one—with Agent Hill. The gala for a prominent NGO that S.H.I.E.L.D. suspected of supplying HYDRA members with forged identities and corporate funding proved to be an ideal opportunity to preliminarily assess the organization.

So what would he possibly have to be upset about?

Maria’s and Sam’s covers were shadow enough that they didn’t have to worry about being recognized when they showed up, but Steve’s face had been plastered on everything from e-billboards to flashing online banner ads for five years straight. Sam was sure that he’d be pegged as Captain America within ten seconds of walking in, but a few small prosthetics and some temporary hair dye seemed to have done the trick. He pulled off a pretty decent British accent too, which surprised the agents who had been prepping them. Sam didn’t need to ask where—or from whom—he’d picked up that particular skill.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Agent Hill wound her arm through Sam’s and squeezed. It was the third time he’d drifted away from the conversation—and the objective—during the evening. The pressure was firm and the message was clear: _Get it together, Wilson._

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

She smiled slow; her gaze was sharp. Since it was just the two of them right now, Sam couldn’t deflect the attention onto someone else.

He glanced away without thinking, and caught Steve across the room. “I was just, um, thinking about a work project.”

Maria followed his line of sight.

He was staring, couldn’t help it. He was giving everything away and he knew it. He’d told Fury that he was more of a soldier than a spy, and if things kept up like this he’d end up being no spy at all by the end of the night.

“Well,” Maria stopped a waiter for a glass of champagne and Sam knew that it was more to hold than to drink. “Do you want to talk about it? The _work project_.”

“It’s okay,” Sam answered too fast and too dismissively and Maria was too good to not see through him immediately. “It’s not a problem.”

“Really?” She raised the glass to her lips but didn’t swallow. “It seems like a problem.”

Sam sighed before he could catch himself. _Why would it be a problem?_

“I just—” He started then cut off. Ground his back teeth and realized somewhere in the muck of his mind that he was still watching Steve. “It’s just that there is this group project that I’m a part of and it requires _partners_ and, well, my partner’s great and I’m super excited to be working with her but there is this other person—my regular partner—and…I guess I don’t get why I didn’t get paired with him.”

“I see.” Maria’s tone was thick and Sam pointedly ignored it.

“I mean, he’s got another partner this time which is _fine_ , why _wouldn’t_ it be fine? And I like the guy and I mean, it’s just a project but I—I could have done that job. Why didn’t I get that job?” Sam wanted to believe that he hadn’t known that had been a question— _the_ question—until it came out, but that wasn’t entirely true.

Steve was listening to some white celebrity—dressed in what looked like Nairobi by way of Milan, probably because tonight’s gala was allegedly doubling as a fundraiser for “Education in Africa” (whatever that meant)—going on and on about something. Even half a room away, Sam could recognized the vague glaze that crept over Steve’s face and the rapid blinks as he desperately tried to regain focus.

Next to him, Colonel Rhodes— _James_ —was wearing a false beard and nodding along much more actively. From time to time, their arms brushed and once or twice he playfully swatted at Steve’s chest and lingered for what Sam, objectively, felt was too long.

Maria leaned in and spoke low. “It sounds like it’s a problem to me.”

Sam forced himself to break away from Steve and shift his gaze down to Agent Hill. He smiled pleasant and close-mouthed. “Why does he even need a partner for this project?”

“Hm.” Maria locked their arms tight at the elbows and, without any other warning, dragged Sam with her into motion. “Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

\---

“Don’t you dance, Dr. Barnes?” The tottering wife of a Dutch diplomat raised her glass towards Steve. It was the second one that she’d gone through in the twenty minutes they’d all been standing together. The final gulps of dark liquor sloshed up towards the glass lip with her sloppy gestures.

“Oh, never mind her.” The diplomat’s speech was less slurred, but her face was still pink and cheery from having taken advantage of the open bar. “Any excuse to make a fool of herself during a waltz.”

“I wish he _would_ dance!” Colonel Rhodes had his arm around Steve’s waist and the tips of Steve’s ears tinged red against the brown dye. James leaned forward conspiratorially and, if Sam hadn’t known that drinking was against mission rules, he would have sworn that Rhodes’ glass was less juice and more vodka. “I always try to get my husband out there, but he’s just too shy. And you know—I _love_ dancing!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, darling.” The endearment slipped out of Steve’ mouth carelessly and Sam almost choked on his tiramisu bite. He felt eyes on him but didn’t look, so it could have been anyone. “I just don’t like dancing in crowds. I always feel like I might step on your toes.”

Everyone in the circle laughed heartily, and Sam was only half a beat behind.

“Well, if you’re looking for a dance partner I’m available.” Maria swayed towards Rhodes while rubbing at the small of Sam’s back. “This one has no rhythm, so we’re always stuck on the sidelines.”

Sam bit his tongue hard and swallowed down a retort. He made a mental note to challenge Hill to a dance-off at their next karaoke night.

Rhodes beamed and bowed with an overexaggerated flourish. “I would be delighted, madam.”

“Wonderful! Let’s go cut a rug, as they say.” The diplomat’s wife drained the last of her drink and took the diplomat by the hand.

Maria linked loose arms with James and as the four of them headed out onto the dance floor, she gestured back at Sam and Steve. “You two can keep each other company in the meantime!” And then they were gone.

They stood alone, together, awkward like they’d both just been abandoned by their real partners. Sam stared at the scuff marks on his shoes—wondered how brand new dress shoes had gotten scuffed so fast. Steve adjusted the fake glasses over the bridge of his crooked nose.

Sam shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “How’s your evening been?”

“Fine.” Steve kept up the accent; he was playing along. “Yours?”

“Fine.” Sam pulled at a piece of thread caught in the seam. “How’s your _husband_?”

At that, Steve looked straight at him and grinned so wide that his gums peeked out and Sam couldn’t for the life of him imagine why.

“He’s fine too.”

“Good.” Sam huffed and it was _ridiculous_ , _this_ was ridiculous. They had a job to do and this was a mission and he wasn’t upset he wasn’t he _wasn’t_. “I’m glad.”

\---

“How do you think that diplomat’s name is spelled?” Steve twisted at a pen that Sam had picked up at some professional seminar. It rattled between his fingers.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you look it up online?” Sam stood at the kitchen counter slicing sweet peppers and carving the seeds out from within. The thick smell of onions and garlic wafted from where Sam’s homemade pasta sauce was simmering on the stove. “Do you even need to include that in the report?”

Steve shrugged, hunched over several paper-clipped stacks of files spread across their small kitchen table. “They always ask for full and complete coverage, and you know that the administrative divisions are sticklers about their paperwork.”

“Yeah.” Sam rocked the knife as he diced the pepper slices. “Speaking of full and complete coverage, I noticed that the debriefing file was pretty slim on mission parameters.”

Pen scratched against paper briskly. “What do you mean?”

“You know, how the team roles were divided up and allocated. For example,” Sam dropped the diced peppers into the saucepan. They hit with a hiss of steam and oil. “Why the managing agents decided that I should be paired with Agent Hill and you should be paired with Colonel Rhodes.”

“Oh, they didn’t decide that.” Steve’s tone strung easy. “I requested it.”

“What?” Sam turned too sharp and too sudden and a splash of oil splattered against the side of his hand. “Son of a—damnit!”

He twisted the faucet on cold and shoved half his arm under the water stream. A kitchen chair grated against the linoleum behind him.

“What happened? Are you alright?” Steve beat his words there, fingers already reaching out and ghosting over the panes of Sam’s back before pulling away. He repeated softer, “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing. Just got burned by the oil.” Sam pressed against the sensitive skin and it stung, but that was it. He turned around and leaned hard against the counter. “Why did you request that?”

Steve shuffled, put a couple more inches between them. “I didn’t think it would be a good idea to pair us for that mission.”

And there it was, flat out and direct. Sam chewed at the inside of his cheek. “Why not?”

“Two guys were going to have to be paired up, and I thought that you’d be more comfortable with Maria than with James.” Steve scratched at the hair along the back of his neck.

“That wasn’t my question.” Sam crossed his arms stiff. “Why didn’t you think we should be paired for that mission? Aren’t we supposed to be partners, as least for the 10% of S.H.I.E.L.D. missions that I get to work?”

“Sam…” Steve trailed off, brought his hands to his hips then down again to buzz at his sides. Silence caked heavy between them, crackling and ready. Sam waited.

“What is this?” Steve finally asked. He waved broad and encompassing.

Sam hooked one eyebrow up. “The kitchen?”

“No, _this_.” Steve pointed between them and suddenly sounded frayed at the edges. “This house, this routine. You cooking and me doing the dishes. Sharing t-shirts and bags and mugs. Looking at each other when we think the other person doesn’t notice. Sitting close but not touching.”

Sam wavered and Steve swayed on his heels.

“That time that you got really drunk and kissed me.”

Sam choked on nothing but his own embarrassment; he’d thought that Steve hadn’t remembered that night on the road when exhaustion and frustration had gotten the better of his inhibitions.

Steve smiled small and sad, only one corner of his mouth quirked up. “I can’t get drunk.”

“I know,” Sam gritted out. “But you can forget, right? The serum didn’t give you super memory or anything.”

The other corner of Steve’s mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t forget something like that.”

Sam rushed on, not wanting to linger. “Okay, fine, so what? You think I can’t be professional about whatever _this_ is?” His fingertips dug deep into his biceps. He cleared his throat and forced himself to keep his eyes even on Steve.

The crease between Steve’s eyebrows sliced thick. “No, I know you would be professional about it.” He inched towards Sam. “But I didn’t want you to have to be professional. _I_ didn’t want to be professional.”

The air bunched and burst electric. It was cool for May but the room had turned stifling for Sam. Steve held out an open palm and Sam slid a hand onto it. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t even think about it. Steve twined their fingers and rubbed between Sam’s knuckles.

“Where’s the fun in faking it?”

Sam coughed out a raspy laugh, caught off-guard and heady and suddenly _aching_. He wound his free hand around the curve of Steve’s hip and edged him close.

“Is Captain America asking me out?”

The burn along Steve’s cheekbones and down his ears struck Sam as unacceptably adorable. He’d definitely have to tease him about it later.

“I’d settle for another kiss first.” Steve hummed low and Sam’s stomach clenched and flooded. He could feel a matching burn begin spreading down his neck as he gathered every last ouch of empty bravado he had.

“Fair enough.”

Sam was ready but Steve was there, lips hot and hungry against Sam’s. It was a force—not frantic or overwhelming but diffusing, like a pot of boiling water just as the heat is turned down. Sam pressed chaste kisses at the corners of Steve’s mouth before pushing forward with his tongue. Their hands dropped and Sam reached for Steve’s face, wanted to feel the heat of the burn beneath his palms. Steve circled his arms around Sam’s back and kneaded at the muscles there.

Sam kept going, kept kissing him, spurred on by the stuttering sounds that settled deep in Steve’s throat and the move of Steve’s body against his. It wasn’t until he started feeling lightheaded that he finally broke away.

They both panted hard into the space wedged between them.

Sam stared at Steve’s wet-bright lips. “I’ve got a meal to cook.”

Steve murmured and squeezed Sam’s hips, right above the waist of his track shorts. “I’ve got a report to finish.”

A beat without movement, and then Sam groaned and stretched back. “Seriously, I think the sauce might be ruined.”

Steve passed him a wooden spoon off the counter and winked. “I guess that the rest of this will have to wait until after dinner.”

Sam jabbed the spoon at his chest. “Yes, it will.”

Steve trudged back to the piles and Sam turned towards the angry sizzle. After a few cautious stirs, he tossed out: “Don’t you dare put any of this in that report.”

“Definitely not.” Steve snickered then chuckled then laughed outright for a solid minute—alive like the sun, and Sam was there whether he shined or not.

Until he fell from the sky, Sam was there.


End file.
